The Penniless Heiress: The Ashcombe Heiresses, #2

By Juliane Karlis

Penniless. Terrified. Thrown upon the mercy of strangers.

When timid Arabella Ashcombe is shipwrecked on her way to claim her inheritance, she finds shelter and friendship in the town of Crofton.

As she tries to put her life back together, she discovers that navigating small-town gossip can be just as perilous as the open seas—and it's not only her own reputation that's at stake! 

Will she find the courage to stand by the tall, dark-haired curate who has shown her such kindness, or will she run from the tongues of the gossips—and the secrets hidden in her own heart?

This sweet and clean historical Regency romance will keep you entertained and leave you satisfied with a delightful happily-ever-after!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mint & Romance
• Release date: Jun 28, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386601234

Juliane Karlis

I like my romance the way I like my mint tea: Pure and refreshing, warm and sweet... yet with that special, invigorating something that keeps you coming back for more. I invite you to join me in my quest for Mint & Romance!  ♥ Juliane

Book preview

Copyright © 2019 by Juliane Karlis. All rights reserved.

For more information, please visit the author’s website.

1

Crofton, England

June 1817

Arabella Ashcombe woke from a fretful sleep, her breath coming quick and shallow. Was it the thunder rumbling in the distance that had woken her, or was it because the jolting of the coach had suddenly ceased? Arabella willed herself to stay calm. I’m not on the ship, she told herself firmly. I’m not on the lifeboat. I am on land. I am safe. I am alive. She pulled her weather-stained blue pelisse tighter around her and shivered. "And I am never, never, never sailing again." She looking out through the rain-streaked window, wondering why the coachman had stopped in this abandoned-looking stretch of the road. He hadn’t seemed to be the criminal type—but then, what did she know of criminals? At least she had nothing worth stealing, as all of her worldly goods had gone down with the Indescribable, the ill-fated ship that was to have brought her to her wealthy grandfather in Jamaica. So the coachman couldn’t be after her belongings. That was a relief.

Or was it? There were crimes worse than thievery! Stop it, she thought. Stop thinking of ridiculous things. Be calm. Her fingers drummed nervously against her thighs, playing out a fast and frantic movement from a sonatina. The action calmed her, distracting her from her terror so that she was almost breathing normally again as the coachman jump down from his perch.

Here we are, the coachman announced, his round face appearing in the window with a suddenness that made her jump. Mr. Heywood’s place, Upper Crofton. He swung the door open and held out a half-hearted hand to steady her as she shakily made the step from the coach. She blinked through the rain, trying to get a clear picture of the small, ivy-covered stone cottage that stood beyond the garden hedge. It was only faintly visible through the steady rain.

I see lights in the window, so I know the gentleman’s home, said the coachman. I hope you won’t mind if I leave you here at the gate, Miss, seeing as it’s such a blustery night. I’d like to set myself in front of a fire soon.

Of course, Arabella replied, her good breeding mastering her rising panic. I shall be quite all right from here. Thank you very much for the ride.

My pleasure, Miss, the man said, tipping his hat to her. Arabella thought his expression was a little strange; curious, perhaps, or surprised, like he was measuring her up and wondering what she was doing at the Heywoods’ house. Perhaps they didn’t get many visitors? Brand Heywood, first mate of the Indescribable, had assured her that his parents and younger sister would be delighted to take her in until she had recovered and decided on her next step. But somehow, now that she was here, she was not so sure of their welcome. I can do this, Arabella told herself firmly. I survived a shipwreck; I can survive a walk through the rain and knocking on a stranger’s door.

She shouldn’t have said that last part aloud. It made the thing too real, to frightening. To go to a stranger’s door and ask for shelter! She, who had always had a maid or a housekeeper or a nurse to open doors and shield her from unpleasantness and uncertainty!

Arabella forced herself, step by step, up the long gravel walk. As she neared the house light streamed palely through a window and lit her way to a little entry that shielded the doorway from the rain. Perhaps, she thought, this will be shelter enough and I can just wait until someone opens the door of their own accord. She shivered, already chilled from the long, damp coach ride, and now feeling the rain soak through every layer of her threadbare garments. Arabella, you will catch your death of cold if you stand here any longer. Knock on the door and get it over with, she instructed herself fiercely. She raised the worn brass knocker with a trembling hand and let it fall, thudding against the door with a bold and demanding sound—so very different from the way she actually felt!

Arabella huddled beneath the slight overhang for what felt like an eternity before the door swung open to reveal a tall young man with dark, disheveled hair. He held a candle in his hand and had a book tucked under his arm, as if he’d just been interrupted in the middle of a good passage and couldn’t bear to put it down.

Oh! Arabella said in surprise. She’d been expecting a kind, motherly figure, so to be met by a youngish, handsomish man with tousled dark hair was so surprising that it drove away what little wits she possessed after her long journey. She knew Brand had three brothers, but he’d said that none of them lived at home any longer. Perhaps this brother was home for a visit? Had she but noticed it, the young man was as surprised at her appearance as she had been by his. For a long moment the two stood silent, staring at each other.

May I help you? the young man asked at last. Arabella wrapped her arms around herself and gave a trembling, halting explanation.

Brand said I could stay with you—I hope I’m not imposing—I mean, I believe he sent word—he said you’d welcome me—that is… she trailed off miserably as she saw his eyebrows raise over his clear gray eyes in surprise and incredulity.

"Brand said you could stay with me? Now he looked at her with his brows drawn, running his hand through his already wild hair and making it stand on end even more. I can’t believe my brother would say such a thing."

But he did! He said you’d be pleased to have me! Arabella said. He did not look at all pleased to have her. She was going to cry. She could not cry. If she did cry, maybe the tears wouldn’t show up on her rain-damp cheeks?

Brand said I’d be happy to— the young man spluttered, then broke off, seeming at a loss for words. I know Brand likes to joke, but really! This is too far! He ought to know better! Sending me a strange woman late at night—

Arabella sagged against the door frame, her fatigue from a long day of travel, to say nothing of the weeks of seasickness and shipwreck, pressed down on her slender shoulders. She was confused and tired and hungry and cold, and not used to talking to young men at all, especially disgruntled young men who obviously wanted nothing to do with her!

Besides, he continued, Brand is sailing to—to— obviously he couldn’t remember his brother’s destination.

Jamaica, Arabella put in quietly.

Exactly—Jamaica, so he couldn’t have sent you! suddenly he stopped and peered at her curiously. "How do you know where his ship is going?"

I was on it, Arabella said wearily. We were wrecked, and brought back to England, and Brand sent me to you. The young man was silent, staring at her as if trying to decide if she told the truth. May—may I speak to Mrs. Heywood, please?

Mrs. Heywood? he asked, surprised. You mean my mother?

Yes, Arabella said, confused by his confusion.

Ahh, he drew out the syllable thoughtfully, and his brow began to clear. "Ah! I see the mistake! You were supposed to go to Lower Crofton—that’s where my parents live."

The coachman told me I was in Crofton, Arabella quavered. To have gone through all of this, only to be at the wrong house and have to go through it all again!

"You’re in Upper Crofton. Don’t worry, we’ll have this sorted in no time. The man’s attitude had changed from bewilderment to businesslike. Has the coach already left?"

Yes, sniffed Arabella.

Oh. The man’s burst of energy seemed to disappear. That’s a pity.

Arabella wondered how far it was to Lower Crofton. Would he make her walk there tonight? She wiped the sleeve of her faded blue pelisse across her eyes and thought she’d rather curl up under the hedge than walk another step in the dark and the rain.

For the first time the man seemed to notice Arabella’s pale face and trembling shoulders. He looked at her, then at the steady rain which promised to grow harder before it let up. He stood in silent thought for a moment, then held the door wider and stepped aside with a shy, apologetic grin.

I’m the only one here at the moment, and it isn’t exactly proper, but I think for tonight you’d best come in.

Improper or not, it was shelter and warmth from the rain and chilling wind, so Arabella made no protest and only cast him a shy, grateful glance as she hurried through the doorway and stood, dripping and shivering, on the matting of the little entry hall.

The man closed the door and turned to look at her. He looked as uncomfortable as she did in this most awkward situation, and opened his mouth a few times as if he was trying to think of a suitable start to a conversation. At last he sighed and threw up his hands.

I’m Parson Roger Heywood, he said, and Brand Heywood’s younger brother, as you may have guessed. Welcome to the Crofton parsonage. He looked at her curiously. And you are…?

Arabella Ashcombe, Arabella replied through lips trembling with cold and nervousness. She felt the blood rising to her chilled cheeks under his curious gaze. I was on my way to Jamaica to live with my grandfather when the ship was wrecked in a storm, she explained. How strange it was that one simple sentence summed up her whole story—the heartache of leaving her home, the peril and terror of the sea voyage, and now the feeling of emptiness and confusion that engulfed her.

Yes, you mentioned a wreck earlier, Roger said, his brows pulled together with concern. But you said that Brand is… he trailed off, his voice questioning.

Your brother is fine, she said, answering his unfinished question. We were picked up by a ship returning to England and he sent me to you—to your mother, I mean. Suddenly the close walls of the little entry seemed to dip and sway like the inside of a ship. Or, Arabella wondered dully, was it just that she was swaying? She reached a hand to the wall to steady herself. I wonder if I might sit down? she asked faintly.

Miss Ashcombe, I am sorry! Roger exclaimed, springing forward instantly to take her arm. You must think me the most negligent host in the world to keep you standing out here in the damp and the draft! Come, come—there’s a fire in the study. Arabella accepted his arm gratefully—indeed, she thought, I am in no state to refuse!—and he guided her into a room that glowed with the warm light of a fire. A thick candle sat on a small table between a comfortable-looking, though threadbare, chair and its companion settee. The room was a chaotic mixture of sitting room and study, exactly what one might expect to see in the home of a young bachelor parson. Books were strewn about the room; perched on a desk, piled in uneven stacks on the floor beside the chair, and lining bookshelves against the far wall. Arabella took this in at a glance and then had eyes only for the fire, crackling away merrily on the hearth. Eagerly, she spread her chilled hands out to its welcome warmth. Roger watched her in silence for a few moments, then cleared his throat awkwardly.

Miss Ashcombe, I’m afraid I have no female attire to offer you, but if you will not object to one of my nightshirts and dressing gowns—freshly washed, I assure you—I really think it would be best if you change out of your wet things as soon as possible.

Yes, Arabella agreed. Usually she would have blushed fiercely—she hated her habit of easy blushing—but right now, she didn’t care whose clothes she was wearing as long as they were warm and dry. Roger cleared his throat again.

Ah, then, my room is this way, he said, stepping back into the entryway and motioning to a door across the hall. Arabella reluctantly turned from the fire to follow him. He opened the door and darted inside, throwing clothes from the bed onto a chair and pushing stacks of books and papers from the floor near the bed, murmuring apologies. Mrs. Fields comes on Mondays and Thursdays to do a bit of housework and cooking, but she usually leaves my things alone and I seldom entertain guests. His lips quirked in a tiny, rueful smile. Especially not young lady guests. In my bedchamber. He handed her a folded white nightshirt and a heavy, blue-and-gold dressing gown and turned to leave, then stopped suddenly in the doorway. Have you eaten? he asked.

Not recently, Arabella admitted. She’d been too nervous on the journey to eat, even if she had possessed the means to get a hot meal on the road. Roger nodded.

Then once you have changed you are most welcome to join me in the study for a little supper.

Thank you, Arabella said, her stomach rumbling slightly at the thought of food.

Roger shut the door and Arabella stood in breathless silence, listening as his footsteps crossed the hall into the study. When he was safely in the other room she stepped out of her shoes and stockings and unbuttoned her wet pelisse as swiftly as her stiff fingers would allow. The driving rain had soaked her to the skin through the thin, worn gown and simple underthings that had been her only wardrobe since the wreck. Dropping them to the floor, she slipped into the dry nightshirt with a sigh of relief. The sleeves were too long, of course, but she could easily roll them up.